Poems and Songs Read Online

–

THIS, our futurum esse DECREET,

We mean it not to keep a secret;

But in OUR SUMMONS here insert it,

And whoso dares, may controvert it. –]

THIS, mark'd before the date and place is,

SIGILLUM EST, PER,

B–S THE PRESES.

This Summons and the signet mark,

EXTRACTUM EST, PER,

RICHMOND, CLERK.

AT MAUCHLINE, idem date of June,

'Tween six and seven, the afternoon,

You twa, in propria personæ,

Within design'd, SANDY and JOHNY,

This SUMMONS legally have got,

As vide witness underwrote:

Within the house of JOHN DOW, vinter,

NUNC FACIO HOC,

GULLELMUS HUNTER.

1 A Tanner.

2 A coachman.

3 A Clockmaker.

Epitaph on John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon,

What was his religion,

Whae'er desires to ken,

To some other warl

Maun follow the carl,

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane.

Strong ale was ablution,

Small beer persecution,

A dram was memento mori;

But a full flowing bowl,

Was the saving his soul,

And Port was celestial glory.

Epitaph on a Wag in Mauchline

Lament 'im Mauchline husbands a',

He aften did assist ye;

For had ye staid whole weeks awa'

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye.

Ye Mauchline bairns as on ye pass,

To school in bands thegither,

O tread ye lightly on his grass,

Perhaps he was your father.

[On Willie Chalmers]

Madam,

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,

And eke a braw new brechan,

My Pegasus I'm got astride,

And up Parnassus pechin;

Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,

The doited beastie stammers;

Then up he gets, and off he sets,

For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenned name

May cost a pair o' blushes;

I am nae stranger to your fame,

Nor his warm-urged wishes.

Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet,

His honest heart enamours,

And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,

And Honour safely back her,

And Modesty assume your air,

And ne'er a ane mistak' her:

And sic twa love-inspiring e'en,

Might fire even holy Palmers;

Nae wonder then they've fatal been

To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na Fortune may you shore

Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie,

Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,

And band upon his breastie;

But oh! what signifies to you

His lexicons and grammars;

The feeling heart's the royal blue,

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird,

May warsle for your favour;

May claw his lug, and straik his beard,

And host up some palaver.

My bonie maid, before ye wed

Sic clumsy-witted hammers,

Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard

For ane that shares my bosom,

Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues,

For de'il a hair I roose him.

May powers aboon unite you soon,

And fructify your amours, –

And every year come in mair dear

To you and Willie Chalmers.

A Dream

Thoughts, words and deeds, the Statute blames with reason;

But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason.

On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.

I

Guid-mornin to your MAJESTY!

May heaven augment your blisses,

On ev'ry new Birth-day ye see,

A humble Poet wishes!

My Bardship here, at your Levee,

On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,

Amang thae Birth-day dresses

Sae fine this day.

II

I see ye're complimented thrang,

By many a lord an' lady;

'God save the King' 's a cukoo sang

That's unco easy said ay:

The Poets too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' ready,

Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,

But ay unerring steady,

On sic a day.

III

For me! before a Monarch's face,

Ev'n there I winna flatter;

For neither Pension, Post, nor Place,

Am I your humble debtor:

So, nae reflection on YOUR GRACE,

Your Kingship to bespatter;

There's monie waur been o' the Race,

And aiblins ane been better

Than You this day.

IV

'Tis very true, my sovereign King,

My skill may weel be doubted;

But Facts are cheels that winna ding,

An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath Your wing,

Is e'en right reft an' clouted,

And now the third part o' the string,

An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

V

Far be't frae me that I aspire

To blame your Legislation,

Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,

To rule this mighty nation;

But faith! I muckle doubt, my SIRE,

Ye've trusted 'Ministration,

To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,

Wad better fill'd their station

Than courts yon day.

VI

And now Ye've gien auld Britain peace,

Her broken shins to plaister;

Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester:

For me, thank God, my life's a lease,

Nae bargain wearing faster,

Or faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese,

I shortly boost to pasture

I' the craft some day.

VII

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pit,

When taxes he enlarges,

(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,

A Name not Envy spairges)

That he intends to pay your debt,

An' lessen a' your charges;

But, G–d-sake! let nae saving-fit

Abridge your bonie Barges

An' Boats this day.

VIII

Adieu, my LIEGE! may Freedom geck

Beneath your high protection;

An' may Ye rax Corruption's neck,

And gie her for dissection!

But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,

In loyal, true affection,

To pay your QUEEN, with due respect,

My fealty an' subjection

This great Birth-day.

IX

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!

While Nobles strive to please Ye,

Will Ye accept a Compliment,

A simple Poet gies Ye?

Thae bonie Bairntime, Heav'n has lent,

Still higher may they heeze Ye

In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,

For ever to release Ye

Frae Care that day.

X

For you, young Potentate o' W–,

I tell your Highness fairly,

Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails,

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely;

But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

An' curse your folly sairly,

That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie

By night or day.

XI

Yet aft a ragged Cowte's been known,

To mak a noble Aiver;

So, ye may dousely fill a Throne,

For a' their clish-ma-claver:

There, Him at Agincourt wha shone,

Few better were or braver;

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir1 John,

He was an unco shaver

For monie a day.

XII

For you, right rev'rend O–,

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,

Altho' a ribban at your lug

Wad been a dress compleater:

As ye disown yon paughty dog,

That bears the Keys of Peter,

Then swith! an' get a wife to hug,

Or trouth! ye'll stain the Mitre

Some luckless day.

XIII

Young, royal TARRY-BREEKS, I learn,

Ye've lately come athwart her;

A glorious2 Galley, stem and stern,

Weel rigg'd for Venus barter;

But first hang out that she'll discern

Your hymeneal Charter,

Then heave aboard your grapple airn,

An', large upon her quarter,

Come full that day.

XIV

Ye lastly, bonie blossoms a',

Ye royal Lasses dainty,

Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,

An' gie you lads a plenty:

But sneer na British-boys awa;

For Kings are unco scant ay,

An' German-Gentles are but sma',

They're better just than want ay

On onie day.

XV

God bless you a'! consider now,

Ye're unco muckle dautet;

But ere the course o' life be through,

It may be bitter sautet:

An' I hae seen their coggie fou,

That yet hae tarrow't at it,

But or the day was done, I trow,

The laggen they hae clautet

Fu' clean that day.

1 Sir John Falstaff, Vide Shakespeare.

2 Alluding to the Newspaper account of a certain royal Sailor's Amor.

[To Dr. John Mackenzie]

Friday first's the day appointed

By our Right Worshipful Anointed,

To hold our grand Procession,

To get a blade o' Johnie's Morals,

And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels,

I' the way of our Profession:

Our Master and the Brotherhood

Wad a' be glad to see you;

For me, I wad be mair than proud

To share the MERCIES wi' you.

If Death then wi' skaith then

Some mortal heart is hechtin,

Inform him, an' storm him,

That SATURDAY ye'll fecht him.

The Farewell. To the Brethren of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton

Tune, Goodnight and joy be wi' you a'

I

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu!

Dear brothers of the mystic tye!

Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd Few,

Companions of my social joy!

Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',

With melting heart, and brimful eye,

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.

II

Oft have I met your social Band,

And spent the chearful, festive night;

Oft, honor'd with supreme command,

Presided o'er the Sons of light:

And by that Hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but Craftsmen ever saw!

Strong Mem'ry on my heart shall write

Those happy scenes when far awa'!

III

May Freedom, Harmony and Love

Unite you in the grand Design,

Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above,

The glorious ARCHITECT Divine!

That you may keep th' unerring line,

Still rising by the plummet's law,

Till Order bright, completely shine,

Shall be my Pray'r when far awa'.

IV

And You, farewell! whose merits claim,

Justly that highest badge to wear!

Heav'n bless your honor'd, noble Name,

To MASONRY and SCOTIA dear!

A last request, permit me here,

When yearly ye assemble a',

One round, I ask it with a tear,

To him, the Bard, that's far awa'.

The Farewell

The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?

Or what does he regard his single woes?

But when, alas! he multiplies himself,

To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair,

To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,

To helpless children, – then, Oh then he feels

The point of misery festering in his heart,

And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward:

Such, such am I! – undone!

Thomson's Edward and Eleanora.

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains,

Far dearer than the torrid plains,

Where rich ananas blow!

Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!

A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!

My Jean's heart-rending throe!

Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft

Of my paternal care,

A faithful brother I have left,

My part in him thou'lt share!

Adieu too, to you too,

My Smith, my bosom frien';

When kindly you mind me,

O then befriend my Jean!

What bursting anguish tears my heart;

From thee, my Jeany, must I part!

Thou, weeping, answ'rest – »No!«

Alas! misfortune stares my face,

And points to ruin and disgrace,

I for thy sake must go!

Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,

A grateful, warm adieu:

I, with a much-indebted tear,

Shall still remember you!

All-hail then, the gale then,

Wafts me from thee, dear shore!

It rustles, and whistles

I'll never see thee more!

Tam Samson's1 Elegy

An honest man's the noblest work of God –

Pope.

Has auld K********* seen the Deil?

Or great M'*******2 thrawn his heel?

Or R********3 again grown weel,

To preach an' read?

»Na, waur than a'!« cries ilka chiel,

»Tam Samson's dead!«

K********* lang may grunt an' grane,

An' sigh an' sab, an' greet her lane,

An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,

In mourning weed;

To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane,

Tam Samson's dead!

The Brethren o' the mystic level

May hing their head in wofu' bevel,

While by their nose the tears will revel,

Like ony bead;

Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel,

Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak,

And binds the mire like a rock;

When to the loughs the Curlers flock,

Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock,

Tam Samson's dead?

He was the king of a' the Core,

To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,

Or up the rink like Jehu roar

In time o' need;

But now he lags on Death's hog-score,

Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately Sawmont sail,

And Trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,

And Eels weel kend for souple tail,

And Geds for greed,

Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail

Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a';

Ye cootie Moorcocks, crousely craw;

Ye Maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,

Withoutten dread;

Your mortal Fae is now awa',

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd

Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd,

While pointers round impatient burn'd,

Frae couples freed;

But, Och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!

Tam Samson's dead!

In vain Auld-age his body batters;

In vain the Gout his ancles fetters;

In vain the burns cam down like waters,

An acre-braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters,

»Tam Samson's dead!«

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,

An' ay the tither shot he thumpit,

Till coward Death behind him jumpit,

Wi' deadly feide;

Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet,

Tam Samson's dead!

When at his heart he felt the dagger,

He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,

But yet he drew the mortal trigger

Wi' weel-aim'd heed;

»L–d, five!« he cry'd, an' owre did stagger;

Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary Hunter mourn'd a brither;

Ilk Sportsman-youth bemoan'd a father;

Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,

Marks out his head,

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,

Tam Samson 's dead!

There, low he lies, in lasting rest;

Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast

Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest,

To hatch an' breed:

Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!

Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave,

And Sportsmen wander by yon grave,

Three vollies let his mem'ry crave

O' pouther an' lead,

Till Echo answer frae her cave,

Tam Samson's dead!

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be!

Is th' wish o' mony mae than me:

He had twa fauts, or maybe three,

Yet what remead?

Ae social, honest man want we:

Tam Samson's dead!

The Epitaph

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies,

Ye canting Zealots, spare him!

If Honest Worth in heaven rise,

Ye'll mend or ye win near him.

Per contra

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly

Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie,4

Tell ev'ry social, honest billie

To cease his grievin,

For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie,

Tam Samson's livin!

1 When this worthy old Sportsman went out last muir-fowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, »the last of his fields;« and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the Author composed his Elegy and Epitaph.

2 A certain Preacher, a great favourite with the Million. Vide the ORDINATION, p. [214].

3 Another Preacher, an equal favourite with the Few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the ORDINATION, stanza IX.

4 Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use for the name of a certain town in the West.

[To John Kennedy]

Farewel D..r Friend! may Guid-luck hit you,

And 'mang her favorites admit you!

If e'er Detraction shore to smit you,

May nane believe him!

And ony deil that thinks to get you,

Good Lord deceive him!!!

[Epistle from a Taylor to Robert Burns]

[What waefu' news is this I hear,

Frae greeting I can scarce forbear,

Folk tells me, ye're gawn aff this year,

Out o'er the sea,

And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear

Will greet for thee.

Weel wad I like war ye to stay,

But Robin since ye will away,

I ha'e a word yet mair to say,

And maybe twa;

May he protect us night an' day,

That made us a'.

Whar thou art gaun, keep mind frae me,

Seek him to bear thee companie,

And, Robin, whan ye come to die,

Ye'll won aboon,

An' live at peace an' unity

Ayont the moon.

Some tell me, Rab, ye dinna fear

To get a wean, an' curse an' swear,

I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear

O' sic a trade,

Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear,

I wad be glad.

Fu' weel ye ken ye'll gang to hell,

Gin ye persist in doin' ill –

Waes me! ye 're hurlin' down the hill

Withouten dread,

An' ye'll get leave to swear your fill

After ye 're dead.

There,1 walth o' women ye'll get near,

But gettin' weans ye will forbear,

Ye'll never say, my bonnie dear

Come, gie's a kiss –

Nae kissing there – ye'll girn an' sneer,

An' ither hiss.

O Rab! lay by thy foolish tricks,

An' steer nae mair the female sex,

Or some day ye'll come through the pricks,

An' that ye'll see;

Ye'll fin' hard living wi' Auld Nicks,

I'm wae for thee.

But what's this comes wi' sic a knell,

Amaist as loud as ony bell,

While it does mak' my conscience tell

Me what is true,

I'm but a ragget cowt mysel',

Owre sib to you!

We're owre like those wha think it fit,

To stuff their noddles fu' o' wit,

An' yet content in darkness sit,

Wha shun the light,

To let them see down to the pit,

That lang dark night.

But fareweel, Rab, I maun awa',

May he that made us keep us a',

For that wad be a dreadfu' fa'

And hurt us sair,

Lad, ye wad never mend ava,

Sae, Rab, tak' care.]

Robert Burns' Answer

What ails ye now, ye lousie b–h,

To thresh my back at sic a pitch?

Losh man! hae mercy wi' your natch,

Your bodkin's bauld,

I did na suffer ha'f sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow crouse,

I gi'e their wames a random pouse,

Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse,

An' jag the flae.

King David o' poetic brief,

Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief

As fill'd his after life wi' grief

An' bloody rants,

An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief

O' lang syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,

My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,

I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts

An unco slip yet,

An' snugly sit amang the saunts

At Davie's hip yet.

But fegs, the Session says I maun

Gae fa' upo' anither plan,

Than garren lasses cowp the cran

Clean heels owre body,

And sairly thole their mither's ban,

A fore the howdy.

This leads me on, to tell for sport,

How I did wi' the Session sort –

Auld Clinkum at the inner port

Cry'd three times, »Robin!«

»Come hither lad, an' answer for't,

Ye're blam'd for jobbin'.«

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,

An' snoov'd awa' before the Session –

I made an open fair confession,

I scorn'd to lie;

An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,

Fell foul o' me.

A furnicator lown he call'd me,

An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me;

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,

»But what the matter,«

Quo' I, »I fear unless ye geld me,

I'll ne'er be better.«

»Geld you!« quo' he, »and whatfore no,

If that your right hand, leg or toe,

Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,

You shou'd remember

To cut it aff, an' whatfore no,

Your dearest member.«

»Na, na,« quo' I, »I'm no for that,

Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't,

I'd rather suffer for my faut,

A hearty flewit,

As sair owre hip as ye can draw 't!

Tho' I should rue it.

Or gin ye like to end the bother,

To please us a', I've just ae ither,

When next wi' yon lass I forgather,

Whate'er betide it,

I'll frankly gi'e her 't a' thegither,

An' let her guide it.«

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava,

An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,

I said »Gude night«, and cam' awa',

And left the Session;

I saw they were resolved a'

On my oppression.

1 In hell.

The Brigs of Ayr, a Poem. Inscribed to J. B*********, Esq; Ayr

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush,

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,

Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;

Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed,

To hardy Independence bravely bred,

By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field,

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?

Or labour hard the panegyric close,

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?

No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.

Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,

Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;

When B********* befriends his humble name,

And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame,

With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap,

And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;

Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith

Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;

The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer-toils,

Unnumber'd buds, an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,

Seal'd up with frugal care in massive, waxen piles,

Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak,

The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:

The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side,

The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;

The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie,

Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:

(What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,

And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)

Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs;

Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,

Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,

Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree:

The hoary morns precede the sunny days,

Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon-tide blaze,

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.

'Twas in that season; when a simple Bard,

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward,

Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,

By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care,

He left his bed and took his wayward rout,

And down by Simpson's1 wheel'd the left about:

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate,

To witness what I after shall narrate;

Or whether, rapt in meditation high,

He wander'd out he knew not where nor why)

The drowsy Dungeon-clock2 had number'd two,

And Wallace Tow'r3 had sworn the fact was true:

The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar,

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore:

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e;

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree:

The chilly Frost, beneath the silver beam,

Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. –

When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,

The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;

Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air,

Swift as the Gos4 drives on the wheeling hare;

Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,

The ither flutters o'er the rising piers:

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd

The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,

And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them,

And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.)

Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,

The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face:

He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,

Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.

New Brig was buskit in a braw, new coat,

That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got;

In's hand five taper staves as smooth 's a bead,

Wi' virls an' whirlygigums at the head.

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,

Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;

It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e,

And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!

Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,

He, down the water, gies him this guid-een –

Auld Brig

I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank,

Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank!

But gin ye be a Brig as auld as me,

Tho' faith, that day, I doubt, ye'll never see;

There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle,

Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.

New Brig

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense,

Just much about it wi' your scanty sense;

Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street,

Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,

Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime,

Compare wi' bonie Brigs o' modern time?

There's men of taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream,5

Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim,

Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view

Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.

Auld Brig

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!

This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide;

And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn,

I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn!

As yet ye little ken about the matter,

But twa-three winters will inform ye better.

When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains

Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;

When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course,

Or haunted Garpal6 draws his feeble source,

Arous'd by blustering winds an' spotting thowes,

In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;

While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,

Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;

And from Glenbuck,7 down to the Ratton-key,8

Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea;

Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise!

And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies.

A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,

That Architecture's noble art is lost!

New Brig

Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say 't o't!

The L–d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't!

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices,

Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices;

O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,

Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves:

Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest,

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;

Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream,

The craz'd creations of misguided whim;

Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee,

And still the second dread command be free,

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea.

Mansions that would disgrace the building-taste

Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast;

Fit only for a doited Monkish race,

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace,

Or Cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion,

That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion:

Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection,

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!

Auld Brig

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings,

Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!

Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie,

Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay;

Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners,

To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners;

Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town;

Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown,

Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters;

And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers:

A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,

Were ye but here, what would ye say or do!

How would your spirits groan in deep vexation,

To see each melancholy alteration;

And, agonising, curse the time and place

When ye begat the base, degen'rate race!

Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory,

In plain, braid Scots hold forth a plain, braid story:

Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce,

Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house;

But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,

The herryment and ruin of the country;

Men, three-parts made by Taylors and by Barbers,

Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d–d new Brigs and Harbours!

New Brig

Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough,

And muckle mair than ye can mak to through.

As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,

Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:

But, under favor o' your langer beard,

Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd;

To liken them to your auld-warld squad,

I must needs say, comparisons are odd.

In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can have a handle

To mouth »A Citizen«, a term o' scandal:

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins,

Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins.

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,

Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp,

And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them,

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.

What farther clishmaclaver might been said,

What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed,

No man can tell; but, all before their sight,

A fairy train appear'd in order bright:

Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd;

Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd:

They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat,

The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet:

While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung,

And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.

O had M' Lauchlan9, thairm-inspiring Sage,

Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,

When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with, Highland rage;

Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs,

The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares;

How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd,

And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd!

No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,

But all the soul of Music's self was heard;

Harmonious concert rung in every part,

While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.

The Genius of the Stream in front appears,

A venerable Chief advanc'd in years;

His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,

His manly leg with garter tangle bound.

Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,

Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;

Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy,

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:

All-chearing Plenty, with her flowing horn,

Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn;

Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show,

By Hospitality with cloudless brow.

Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride,

From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide:

Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,

A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair:

Learning and Worth in equal measures trode,

From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode:

Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazle wreath,

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath

The broken, iron instruments of Death,

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

1 A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.

2 The two steeples.

3 The two steeples.

4 The gos-hawk, or falcon.

5 A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.

6 The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.

7 The source of the river of Ayr.

8 A small landing-place above the large key.

9 A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin.

Wrote on the blank leaf of a copy of my first Edition, which I sent to an old Sweetheart, then married –

Once fondly lov'd, and still rememb'red dear,

Sweet early Object of my youthful vows,

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,

Friendship – 'tis all cold duty now allows.

And while you read the simple, artless rhymes,

One friendly sigh for him – he asks no more,

Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes,

Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.

Song

Tune, Roslin Castle

I

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,

Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast,

Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,

I see it driving o'er the plain;

The Hunter now has left the moor,

The scatt'red coveys meet secure,

While here I wander, prest with care,

Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

II

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn

By early Winter's ravage torn;

Across her placid, azure sky,

She sees the scowling tempest fly:

Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,

I think upon the stormy wave,

Where many a danger I must dare,

Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

III

'Tis not the surging billow's roar,

'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;

Tho' Death in ev'ry shape appear,

The Wretched have no more to fear:

But round my heart the ties are bound,

That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;

These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,

To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

IV

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,

Her heathy moors and winding vales;

The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,

Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!

My peace with these, my love with those –

The bursting tears my heart declare,

Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!

The Northern Lass

Though cruel Fate should bid us part,

Far as the Pole and Line,

Her dear idea round my heart

Should tenderly entwine:

Though mountains rise, and desarts howl,

And oceans roar between;

Yet dearer than my deathless soul

I still would love my Jean. –

A Fragment –

Chorus

Green grow the rashes O,

Green grow the rashes O,

The lasses they hae wimble bores,

The widows they hae gashes O.

1

In sober hours I am a priest;

A hero when I'm tipsey, O;

But I'm a king and ev'ry thing,

When wi' a wanton Gipsey, O.

Green grow & c.

2

'Twas late yestreen I met wi' ane,

An' wow, but she was gentle, O!

Ae han' she pat roun' my cravat,

The tither to my p– O.

Green grow & c.

3

I dought na speak – yet was na fley'd –

My heart play'd duntie, duntie, O;

An' ceremony laid aside,

I fairly fun' her c–ntie, O. –

Green grow & c.

Multa desunt –

The Calf

To the Rev. Mr –, on his text, MALACHI, ch. iv. vers. 2 »And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall.«

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,

Tho' Heretics may laugh;

For instance, there's yoursel just now,

God knows, an unco Calf!

And should some Patron be so kind,

As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,

Ye're still as great a Stirk.

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour

Shall ever be your lot,

Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power,

You e'er should be a Stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear

Your But-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear

A noble head of horns.

And, in your lug, most reverend J–,

To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims

To rank amang the Nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,

Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head –

»Here lies a famous Bullock!«

Nature's Law

Humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

»Great Nature spoke; observant man obey'd« –

POPE.

}

Let other heroes boast their scars,

The marks of sturt and strife;

And other poets sing of wars,

The plagues of human life;

Shame fa' the fun; wi' sword and gun

To slap mankind like lumber!

I sing his name, and nobler fame,

Wha multiplies our number.

Great Nature spoke, with air benign,

»Go on, ye human race;

This lower world I you resign;

Be fruitful and increase.

The liquid fire of strong desire

I've pour'd it in each bosom;

Here, on this hand, does Mankind stand,

And there, is Beauty's blossom.«

The Hero of these artless strains,

A lowly bard was he,

Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains,

With meikle mirth an' glee;

Kind Nature's care had given his share

Large, of the flaming current;

And, all devout, he never sought

To stem the sacred torrent.

He felt the powerful high behest

Thrill, vital, thro' and thro';

And sought a correspondent breast,

To give obedience due:

Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs,

From mildews of abortion;

And lo! the Bard – a great reward –

Has got a double portion!

Auld cantie Coil may count the day,

As annual it returns,

The third of Libra's equal sway,

That gave another Burns,

With future rhymes, an' other times,

To emulate his sire,

To sing auld Coil in nobler style,

With more poetic fire.

Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,

Look down with gracious eyes;

And bless auld Coila, large and long,

With multiplying joys;

Lang may she stand to prop the land,

The flow'r of ancient nations;

And Burnses spring, her fame to sing,

To endless generations!

Extempore Verses on Dining with Lord Daer

Mossgiel, October 25th.

This wot all ye whom it concerns,

I, rhymer Rab, alias BURNS,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er to be forgotten day!

Sae far I sprachl'd up the brae,

I dinner'd wi' a LORD.

I've been at drucken Writers' feasts;

Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly Priests;

(Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!)

I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,

When mighty Squireships o' the Quorum,

Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a LORD! – stand out my shin!

A LORD – a PEER – an EARL'S SON –

Up higher yet, my bonnet!

An' such a LORD – lang Scotch ell twa;

Our PEERAGE he looks o'er them a',

As I look o'er my sonnet.

But, O! for Hogarth's magic pow'r,

To shew Sir Bardie's willyart glowr,

An' how he star'd an' stammer'd!

When goavan 's he'd been led wi' branks,

An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks,

He in the parlour hammer'd.

To meet good Stuart little pain is,

Or Scotia's sacred Demosthenes,

Thinks I, they are but men!

But Burns, my Lord – Guid G–d! I doited!

My knees on ane anither knoited,

As faultering I gaed ben!

I sidling shelter'd in a neuk,

An' at his Lordship staw a leuk,

Like some portentous omen;

Except GOOD SENSE, an' SOCIAL GLEE,

An' (what surpris'd me) MODESTY,

I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the GREAT,

The GENTLE PRIDE, the LORDLY STATE,

The arrogant assuming;

The fient a pride, nae pride had he,

Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,

Mair than an honest Ploughman.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,

Henceforth to meet with unconcern,

One rank as well's another;

Nae honest, worthy man need care,

To meet wi' NOBLE, youthfu' DAER,

For he but meets a BROTHER.

The Sons of old Killie

Tune – Shawnboy

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,

To follow the noble vocation;

Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another

To sit in that honoured station.

I've little to say, but only to pray,

As praying's the ton of your fashion;

A prayer from the muse you well may excuse,

'Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide,

Who marked each element's border;

Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,

Whose sovereign statute is order;

Within this dear mansion may wayward contention

Or withered envy ne'er enter;

May secresy round be the mystical bound,

And brotherly love be the centre.

Epistle to Captn. Willm. Logan at Park –

Oct: 30th, 1786.

Hail, thairm-inspirin, rattlin Willie!

Though Fortune's road be rough an' hilly

To ev'ry fiddling, rhyming billie,

We never heed;

But tak it like th' unbacked Fillie,

Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavin whyles we saunter,

Yirr, Fancy barks, – awa we canter,

Up-hill, down-brae, till some mishanter,

Some black Bog-hole,

Arreest us; then the scathe an' banter

We're forc'd to thole.

Hale be your HEART! Hale be your FIDDLE!

Lang may your elbuck jink an' didle,

To chear you through the weary widdle

O' this vile Warl:

Until ye on a cummock dridle,

A gray-hair'd Carl!

Come WEALTH, come POORTITH, late or soon,

Heav'n send your HEART-STRINGS ay IN TUNE!

An' screw your TEMPER-PINS aboon,

A FIFTH or mair,

The melancholious, sairie croon

O' cankrie CARE!

May still your Life, from day to day,

Nae LENTE LARGO, in the play,

But ALLEGRETTO FORTE, gay,

Harmonious flow:

A sweeping, kindling, bauld STRATHSPEY,

Encore! Bravo!

A' blessins on the cheary gang

Wha dearly like a Jig or sang;

An' never balance RIGHT and WRANG

By square and rule,

But as the CLEGS O' FEELING stang,

Are wise or fool!

My hand-wal'd CURSE keep hard in chase

The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud RACE,

Wha count on POORTITH as disgrace!

Their tuneless hearts,

May FIRE-SIDE DISCORDS jar a BASS

To a' their PARTS!

But come – your hand – my careless brither –

I' th' tither WARLD, if there's anither,

An' that there is, I've little swither

About the matter;

We cheek-for-chow shall jog the gither,

I 'se ne'er bid better.

We've fauts an' failins, – granted clearly:

We're frail, backsliding Mortals meerly:

Eve's bonie SQUAD, Priests wyte them sheerly,

For our grand fa':

But still – but still – I like them dearly;

GOD bless them a'!

Ochon! for poor CASTALIAN DRINKERS,

When they fa' foul o' earthly Jinkers!

The witching, curst, delicious blinkers

Hae put me hyte;

An' gart me weet my waukrife winkers,

Wi' girnan spite.

But by yon Moon! an' that's high swearin;

An' every Star within my hearin!

An' by her een! wha was a dear ane,

I'll ne'er forget;

I hope to gie the JADS a clearin

In fair play yet!

My loss I mourn, but not repent it:

I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it:

Ance to the Indies I were wonted,

Some cantraip hour,

By some sweet Elf I may be dinted,

Then, VIVE L'AMOUR!

Faites mes BAISEMAINS respectueuse,

To sentimental Sister Susie,

An' honest LUCKY; no to roose ye,

Ye may be proud,

That sic a couple Fate allows ye

To grace your blood.

Nae mair, at present, can I measure;

An' trowth my rhymin ware's nae treasure;

But when in Ayr, some half hour's leisure,

Be 't light, be 't dark,

Sir Bard will do himsel the pleasure

To call at PARK.

A Winter Night

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,

That bide the pelting of this pityless storm!

How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,

Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you

From seasons such as these –

Shakespeare.

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,

Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;

When Phœbus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,

Far south the lift,

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,

Or whirling drift.

Ae night the Storm the steeples rocked,

Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,

While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,

Wild-eddying swirl,

Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl.

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,

I thought me on the ourie cattle,

Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,

Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!

That, in the merry months o' spring,

Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,

An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,

Lone from your savage homes exil'd,

The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,

My heart forgets,

While pityless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phœbe, in her midnight reign,

Dark-muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain;

Still crouding thoughts, a pensive train,

Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain,

Slow-solemn, stole –

»Blow, blow, ye Winds, with heavier gust!

And freeze, thou bitter-biting Frost!

Descend, ye chilly, smothering Snows!

Not all your rage, as now, united shows

More hard unkindness, unrelenting,

Vengeful malice, unrepenting,

Than heaven-illumin'd Man on brother Man bestows!

See stern Oppression's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand,

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land!

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,

How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side,

The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear,

Looks o'er proud Property, extended wide;

And eyes the simple, rustic Hind,

Those toil upholds the glitt'ring show,

A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,

Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!

Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,

With lordly Honor's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?

Is there, beneath Love's noble name,

Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,

To bless himself alone!

Mark Maiden-innocence a prey

To love-pretending snares,

This boasted Honor turns away,

Shunning soft Pity's rising sway,

Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs!

Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest,

She strains your infant to her joyless breast,

And with a Mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,

Feel not a want but what yourselves create,

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,

Whom friends and fortune quite disown!

Ill-satisfy'd, keen Nature's clam'rous call,

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep,

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall,

Chill, o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!

Think on the dungeon's grim confine,

Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine!

Guilt, erring Man, relenting view!

But shall thy legal rage pursue

The Wretch, already crushed low

By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow?

Affliction's sons are brothers in distress;

A Brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!«

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer

Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hail'd the morning with a cheer,

A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impress'd my mind –

Thro' all his works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles GOD.

[Extempore Reply to an Invitation]

Sir,

Yours this moment I unseal,

And faith I'm gay and hearty!

To tell the truth and shame the deil,

I am as fou as Bartie:

But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal,

Expect me o' your partie,

If on a beastie I can speel

Or hurl in a cartie.

Yours,

ROBERT BURNS.

MACHLIN,

Monday Night, 10 o'clock

Lying at a Reverend Friend's house one night, the Author left the following Verses in the room where he slept: –

I

O thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above!

I know Thou wilt me hear;

When for this scene of peace and love,

I make my pray'r sincere.

II

The hoary Sire – the mortal stroke,

Long, long be pleas'd to spare;

To bless his little filial flock,

And show what good men are.

III

She, who her lovely Offspring eyes

With tender hopes and fears,

O bless her with a Mother's joys,

But spare a Mother's tears!

IV

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,

In manhood's dawning blush;

Bless him, Thou God of love and truth,

Up to a Parent's wish.

V

The beauteous, seraph Sister-band,

With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,

Guide Thou their steps alway.

VI

When soon or late they reach that coast,

O'er life's rough ocean driven,

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,

A Family in Heaven!

[The Night was still]

The night was still, and o'er the hill

The moon shone on the castle wa';

The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang

Around her on the castle wa'.

Sae merrily they danc'd the ring,

Frae e'enin till the cocks did craw,

And aye the owerword o' the spring

Was Irvine's bairns are bonnie a'.

[Rusticity's ungainly Form]

Rusticity's ungainly form

May cloud the highest mind;

But when the heart is nobly warm,

The good excuse will find.

Propriety's cold cautious rules

Warm Fervour may o'erlook;

But spare poor Sensibility

The ungentle harsh rebuke.

Address to Edinburgh

I

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,

Where once beneath a Monarch's feet

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!

From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,

I shelter in thy honor'd shade.

II

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,

As busy Trade his labours plies;

There Architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendor rise;

Here Justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod;

There Learning, with his eagle eyes,

Seeks Science in her coy abode.

III

Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the Stranger hail;

Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind,

Above the narrow, rural vale:

Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,

Or modest Merit's silent claim;

And never may their sources fail!

And never envy blot their name!

IV

Thy Daughters bright thy walks adorn,

Gay as the gilded summer sky,

Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!

Fair B– strikes th' adoring eye,

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine;

I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!

V

There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude Fortress gleams afar;

Like some bold Vet'ran, gray in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar:

The pond'rous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,

Have oft withstood assailing War,

And oft repell'd th' Invader's shock.

VI

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,

I view that noble, stately Dome,

Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:

Alas, how chang'd the times to come!

Their royal Name low in the dust!

Their hapless Race wild-wand'ring roam!

Tho' rigid Law cries out, 'twas just!

VII

Wild-beats my heart, to trace your steps,

Whose ancestors, in days of yore,

Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:

Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my Sires have left their shed,

And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar,

Bold-following where your Fathers led!

VIII

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,

Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!

From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,

I shelter in thy honor'd shade.

To a Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o' need,

While thro' your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,

An' cut you up wi' ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive,

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither'd rash,

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,

Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,

Gie her a Haggis!

Verses intended to be written below a noble Earl's picture

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow?

And whose that eye of fire?

And whose that generous, Princely mien,

Ev'n rooted Foes admire?

Stranger, to justly show that brow,

And mark that eye of fire,

Would take HIS hand, whose vernal tints,

His other Works admire.

Bright as a cloudless Summer-sun,

With stately port he moves;

His guardian Seraph eyes with awe

The noble Ward he loves.

Among th' illustrious Scottish Sons

That Chief thou may'st discern,

Mark Scotia's fond-returning eye,

It dwells upon GLENCAIRN.

Song

Tune, Jockey's Gray Breeks

I

Again rejoicing Nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze

All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

Chorus1

And maun I still on Menie2 doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e!

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,

An' it winna let a body be!

II

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,

In vain to me the vi'lets spring;

In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

And maun I stilly & c.

III

The merry Ploughboy cheers his team,

Wi' joy the tentie Seedsman stalks,

But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

And maun I still, & c.

IV

The wanton coot the water skims,

Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,

The stately swan majestic swims,

And ev'ry thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, & c.

V

The Sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,

And owre the moorlands whistles shill,

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, & c.

VI

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,

Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,

And mounts and sings on flittering wings,

A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

And maun I still, & c.

VII

Come Winter, with thine angry howl,

And raging bend the naked tree;

Thy gloom will soothe my chearless soul,

When Nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e!

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,

An' it winna let a body be.

1 This Chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the Author's.

2 Menie is the common abbreviation of Marianne.

To Miss L–,

With Beattie's Poems for a New-Year's Gift. Jan. 1. 1787.

Again the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driv'n,

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,

Are so much nearer Heav'n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts

The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts

In Edwin's simple tale.

Our Sex with guile and faithless love

Is charg'd, perhaps too true;

But may, dear Maid, each Lover prove

An Edwin still to you.

[There was a lad]

Tune, Daintie Davie

There was a lad was born in Kyle,

But what na day o' what na style,

I doubt it's hardly worth the while

To be sae nice wi' Robin.

Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';

Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin' rovin' Robin.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane

Was five-and-twenty days begun,

'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' Win'1

Blew hansel in on Robin.

The Gossip keekit in his loof,

Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof,

This waly boy will be nae coof,

I think we'll ca' him Robin.

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',

But ay a heart aboon them a';

He'll be a credit till us a',

We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

But sure as three times three mak nine,

I see by ilka score and line,

This chap will dearly like our kin',

So leeze me on thee, Robin.

Guid faith quo' scho I doubt you Stir,

Ye'll gar the lasses lie aspar;

But twenty fauts ye may hae waur –

So blessins on thee, Robin.

1 Jan. 25th 1759. the date of my Bardship's vital existence. –

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux

Now Robin lies in his last lair,

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him;

Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care

E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him,

Except the moment that they crush't him;

For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em

Tho' e'er sae short,

Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em,

And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,

And counted was baith wight and stark,

Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man;

But tell him, he was learn'd and clark,

Ye roos'd him then!

Epitaph. Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet

Born, September 5th, 1751 – Died 16th October, 1774

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,

»No story'd urn nor animated bust;«

This simple stone directs pale SCOTIA'S way

To pour her sorrows o'er her POET'S dust.

[She mourns, sweet, tuneful youth, thy hapless fate,

Tho' all the pow'rs of song thy fancy fir'd;

Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,

And thankless starv'd what they so much admir'd.

This humble tribute with a tear he gives,

A brother Bard, he can no more bestow;

But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,

A nobler monument than Art can show.]

[On Fergusson]

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,

And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!

O thou, my elder brother in Misfortune,

By far my elder Brother in the muse,

With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!

Why is the Bard unfitted for the world,

Yet has so keen a relish of its Pleasures?

[Ill-fated Genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson]

Ill-fated Genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson,

What heart that feels and will not yield a tear,

To think Life's sun did set e'er well begun

To shed its influence on thy bright career.

O why should truest Worth and Genius pine

Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe,

While titled knaves and idiot-greatness shine

In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?

To a Painter

Dear –, I'll gie ye some advice,

You'll tak it no uncivil:

You shouldna paint at angels, man,

But try and paint the Devil.

To paint an angel's kittle wark,

Wi' Nick there's little danger;

You'll easy draw a lang-kent face,

But no sae weel a stranger.

R.B.

To Mr E– on his translation of and commentaries on Martial

O thou, whom Poesy abhors,

Whom Prose has turned out of doors;

Heard'st thou yon groan? – proceed no further!

'Twas laurell'd Martial calling, Murther!

[The Guidwife of Wauchope-House, to Robert Burns, the Airshire Bard. Feb. 1787]

[My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman,

I hafflins doubt, it is na' true, man,

That ye between the stilts was bred,

Wi' ploughman school'd, wi' ploughman fed.

I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge

Either frae grammar school, or colledge.

Guid troth, your saul and body baith

War' better fed, I'd gie my aith,

Than theirs, who sup sour milk and parritch,

An' bummil thro' the single caritch.

Whaever heard the ploughman speak,

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek?

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel,

As get a single line of Virgil.

An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes

O' Willie P–t and Charlie F–x.

Our great men a' sae weel descrive,

An' how to gar the nation thrive,

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them,

An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,

Ye are a funny blade, I swear.

An' tho' the cauld I ill can bide,

Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride,

O'er moss, an' muir, an' never grumble,

Tho' my auld yad shou'd gae a stumble,

To crack a winter-night wi' thee,

An' hear thy sangs, an' sonnets slee.

A guid saut herring, an' a cake

Wi' sic a chiel a feast wad make.

I'd rather scour your rumming yill,

Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill,

Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine,

An' ferlie at their wit and wine.

O, gif I kend but whare ye baide,

I'd send to you a marled plaid;

'Twad haud your shoulders warm and braw,

An' douse at kirk, or market shaw.

Far south, as weel as north, my lad,

A' honest Scotsmen lo'e the maud.

Right wae that we're sae far frae ither;

Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither.

Your most obed. E.S.]

The Answer

Guidwife,

I mind it weel in early date,

When I was beardless, young and blate,

An' first cou'd thresh the barn,

Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,

An' tho' fu' foughten sair eneugh,

Yet unco proud to learn.

When first amang the yellow corn

A man I reckon'd was;

An' with the lave ilk merry morn

Could rank my rig and lass;

Still shearing and clearing

The tither stooked raw;

With clavers and haivers

Wearing the time awa':

Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power)

A wish, that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast;

That I for poor auld Scotland's sake

Some useful plan, or book could make,

Or sing a sang at least.

The rough bur-thistle spreading wide

Amang the bearded bear,

I turn'd my weeding heuk aside,

An' spar'd the symbol dear.

No nation, no station

My envy e'er could raise:

A Scot still, but blot still,

I knew no higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang

In formless jumble, right an' wrang,

Wild floated in my brain;

Till on that hairst I said before,

My partner in the merry core,

She rous'd the forming strain.

I see her yet, the sonsy quean,

That lighted up my jingle;

Her pauky smile, her kittle een,

That gar't my heart-strings tingle.

So tiched, bewitched,

I rav'd ay to mysel;

But bashing and dashing,

I kend na how to tell.

Hale to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,

Wi' merry dance in winter-days,

An' we to share in common:

The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,

The saul o' life, the heav'n below,

Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,

Be mindfu' o' your mither:

She, honest woman, may think shame

That ye're connected with her.

Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,

That slight the lovely dears:

To shame ye, disclaim ye,

Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, na bred to barn and byre,

Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,

Thanks to you for your line.

The marled plaid ye kindly spare,

By me should gratefully be ware;

'Twad please me to the Nine.

I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,

Douse hingin o'er my curple,

Than ony ermine ever lap,

Or proud imperial purple.

Farewell then, lang hale then,

An' plenty be your fa':

May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'.

March, 1787.

R. BURNS.

[To Miss Isabella Macleod]

The crimson blossom charms the bee,

The summer sun the swallow;

So dear this tuneful gift to me

From lovely Isabella.

Her portrait fair upon my mind

Revolving Time shall mellow;

And Mem'ry's latest effort find

The lovely Isabella.

No Bard nor Lover's rapture this,

In fancies vain and shallow;

She is, so come my soul to bliss!

The lovely Isabella.

Extempore, in the Court of S–

Tune, Gillicrankie

Lord A–te

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist,

He quoted and he hinted,

Till in a declamation-mist,

His argument he tint it:

He gaped for 't, he graped for 't,

He fand it was awa, man;

And what his common sense came short,

He eked out wi' law, man.

Mr Er–ne–

Collected, Harry stood awee,

Then open'd out his arm, man;

His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,

And ey'd the gathering storm, man:

Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail,

Or torrents owre a lin, man;

The BENCH sae wise lift up their eyes,

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

Extempore Epistle to Mr Mc Adam of Craigengillan, (wrote in Nanse Tinnock's, Mauchline) in answer to an obliging letter he sent in the commencement of my poetic career –

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card,

I trow it made me proud;

See wha taks notice o' the Bard!

I lap and cry'd fu' loud.